


Mine Alone

by And_all_the_other_buns



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Trans Character, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, h/c
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9366044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/And_all_the_other_buns/pseuds/And_all_the_other_buns
Summary: With the eyes of the world scrupulously picking apart every performance and receiving little time to himself at home, Yuri takes solace in old habits, flaring up again after his win at the GPF. All he wants is one thing to himself, safe from the gossip of online forums, his coaches critique, and his friends well-intended meddling. A changing body threatening to take the one thing that makes his performances special only adds to his stress, but he's sure he can keep it all to himself. He did before, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

Yurio's alarm blared out, as it always did, at 6:45, the computer-generated, artificial bird tweeting doing little to encourage the boy to greet a new day with princess-like enthusiasm. Face still burrowed deep into the fluff of his pillow, Yurio groped for his phone, squinted at the dim screen and slid the bar over to "snooze." Seven minutes stolen for rest, but they passed by in a semi-sleep instant. More birds twittered and cheeped him to wakefulness. Again he repeated this process, finally sitting up to flick the setting to "awake" at 6:59 am. For several seconds he stretched, reaching his arms up as high as he could to try and stave away some of that weak, floaty feeling left in the body after several hours immobile. At the foot of his bed, Sasha 'mrrpd' pleasantly, following her humans pace to stretch, her densely fluffed little rump rising in the air and her claws kneading into the tangle of blankets that kept Yurio warm through the Russian winter.

"Morning, Sasha," he grumbled, running a hand clumsily between her ears as he hoisted himself out of bed. In thick stocking feet he padded into the hall and took a left into their bathroom; across the hall, Grandpa still stored like the engine of a 747. He was old, and on his days off he could sleep till 11 if Yurio allowed it, which he often did now that he himself was old enough to know better.

The latch locked securely behind him, followed by the undignified scratching of his cat not wanting to be alone.

"Crybaby," he accused as he undid the latch and let her in. Promptly she began to weave herself between his legs and rub her head against every surface, the yellowed plastic tub, the chipped basin of the toilet, warped and water stained cabinets. Grandpa's apartment was a relic of the USSR, former public housing with cardboard-thin walls and 70's era linoleum in many flats, converted before Yuri was born to resemble something a little more comfortable, a little more modern. Walls were torn down to combine tiny 700 square foot spaces into more tolerable habitats, cracked windows were replaced. It wasn't much to look at, but it was home, and the money Yurio brought in to support them assured that even if there were still water spots on the ceiling and nothing was really white anymore, they had a new stove, a refrigerator that wouldn't break down and they'd never have to worry about rent being overdo. 

All the same, Yuri wasn't much for bathroom selfies because of this.

He sat down, did his business, scrubbing Sasha's side with his foot while he peed, rinsed his hands, and toed the bathroom scale out from underneath a wicker cart. He pressed his weight onto it twice to reset it, then stripped. Sweatshirt, sweatpants, bralette, boxers, all piled onto the cabinet to be stuffed into the laundry closet after his shower.

"Paws crossed, Sasha."

He stepped onto the scale and watched the line of zeros flash on and off. One, two, three, four, five-

141.2

"Fuck."

He stepped off the scale, nudged it to one side, gave it a small shake, reset it, and stepped back on.

139.8

"/fuck/"

After 3 more repeats of this ritual, it spat out 139.8 3 more times, and he eventually sighed, returned it to its home, and opened the calendar on his phone. On January 14, 2017, he pressed 'notes' and jotted down his weight. Green eyes glared down at the screen; January 13th read "138.2" and, below that, 1050.

"That's just not fucking fair, Sasha," he groused, selecting a playlist on his phone to blare during his shower; Grandpa was pretty hard of hearing so his speakers could go as loud as they could and he'd never know. 

Sasha just sat down and began to tidy her paws, matching her own grooming schedule up with her humans.

Yurio leaned into the shower and began to fiddle with the knobs, eeking out just the perfect heat from the faucet before pulling the tab to start the shower. From the wicker cart he grabbed his body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and a powder blue wash cloth before slinking in to the welcoming sauna behind the tropical-flowered shower curtain. Sharp jets of hot water massaged away the lingering soreness from yesterdays practice and he groaned pleasurably as the last knots were worn out. He spent 4 hours on the ice yesterday, and had ballet with Lilia to look forward to today in addition to a long run and a 2 hour practice; pretty standard, considering the European Championship was coming up so quickly. He dunked his hair beneath the stream, worked up a lather with his shampoo, rinsed, and coated it with a layer of coconut conditioner, leaving it so absorb.

139.8. Bull. Shit. As he poured a copious blob of bodywash onto his cloth and began to lath it down his arms, he sighed and tried to be reasonable. Yesterday was a hard workout, his muscles were swollen, he was retaining water. Totally legit. He hadn't had a period in 5 months thanks to hormones, so that shouldn't be messing with it any. 1050 yesterday, and the day before, 500 the day before that. It was a lighter day, more stretching and flexibility than high, intense jumps and spins on the ice. He could go lighter today, than. Definitely under 1,000. Definitely. 

He finished his shower, going over the numbers over and over again, adding and readding his week obsessively. They were comforting when it all lined up correctly, and sometimes just adding and subtracting them, murmuring their sum, could be enough to bring him back from a panic. Panic, after all, just lead to foul moods which led to binges were lead to self hatred which lead to more obsession. 

Pipes creaked in the walls as he shut off the water, and he reached for his towel to dry off before the worst of the winter chill could reach him. Sasha, for her part, seemed to enjoy the soft billows of steam on her dense coat. As he toweled off his hair and slipped his bra back on, he mentally tallied his schedule along with his calories. 4 hours with Lilia today, OH joy. Truthfully he admired the older woman, and didn't /hate/ ballet, it's just that she was every bit as much a competitor as he was, and every bit as perfectionist and controlling, and their practices could end in shouting just as often as they did a small dose of her praise. Then it would be Yakov on his ass on the rink, with Viktor and his fucking bride-to-be meddling...

With so many people looking over his shoulder, both in St Petersburg and through the glow of LCD screens the world over, Yurio took deep solace in having this one small, private secret.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to say I will always update so fast but truth is I only had so much written cause I forgot how long it takes to get an invite from Ao3; I hadn't realized pseud's weren't anon.
> 
> Enjoy, reviews and kudos are loved and really make my day

"Again, Yuri; back straight, you're starting to lose posture!"

'Yeah no fucking shit, hag, you've only had me run this routine 29 times today,' Yuri thought to himself bitterly, but he collected himself all the same, tucking his pelvis, lowering his shoulders and tried to will his spine to behave as he took up his starting pose again. With slow breaths he waited for the music to restart. There was no telling Ms Lilia that he was tired; she didn't have time for that. Grand Prix champions, she had said, did not GET tired. Apparently neither did European Champions, considering what she'd been barking to him all morning. Yeah, yeah, he got it; his signature was his grace, his flexibility, his feminine movement, and now more than ever it was imperative that he hone those trademarks. 9 months on hormones and his body was finally starting to show it in more than a humiliatingly cracking voice. Some of his favorite shirts were getting snug through the shoulders while an old and worn pair of jeans was falling off his hips in new and awkward ways. That part, he savored, how his growing body and changing biology shaved away at his girlish curves. He couldn't wait to be rid of his round thighs and feminine hips, changing them in for something slim and narrow well before the bones began to expand. His breasts weren't all that much a bother to him, honestly, being small, and considering how long he would have to be out for recovery and off the ice, he wasn't even sure he disliked them enough to have surgery at any point in his young adult life. A tight bra suited him well beneath his costumes and t shirts.

Downsides were just as rampant, though. What he lost in his thighs and ass he would now gain around his middle instead, a thought that just repulsed him. The last thing he wanted was to get a gut in the off-season, or to fuck up his center of gravity more than was already inevitable.

Yuri counted his steps, landing his foot perfectly to gather his weight into a leap. Softly as could be he landed, turned his feet into place, and returned. He didn't dance on pointe, which surprised him, honestly. Lilia already called him her beautiful little Prima and had him dancing like a girl, he couldn't believe she didn't push him on toe. Hell, he wasn't completely convinced she even saw him as a boy, what with her prima's and her beautiful's...not that Yuri minded being beautiful. There were a lot worse things one could be in life than a pretty boy, after all.

Lilia ran him through two more times before deciding he had been through the wringer enough, told him he did 'well' and that she would see him Tuesday. Oh joy. Well, at least he'd pleased her today; the hag could be a complete nightmare when she thought he wasn't giving his all or had an attitude with her. Besides, while he was loathe to admit it, he had improved tremendously under her instruction, her words wrapping around him and teaching him a mindfulness about his body that he had heretofore never experienced. Yakov had been a champion in his day, but his style of skating was wholly unlike Yuri's and, whether he liked it or not, there were some base anatomy differences between them that just gave each a far different appearance on the ice. No amount of medication would change the shape of his bones as they already were, and he could only hope he was early enough to grow taller. Lilia knew how to use his wide hips and long legs to advantage, how to be aware of every muscle, every expanse of skin and every fingertip. He was her pet project and honestly he reveled in that attention, another thing he wouldn't admit to under threat of torture.

Yuri changed out of his tights and dance shoes, slipping back into sweats, and untangled his earbuds from his bag, hooking them in while he selected his favorite playlist for a run. He was only suppose to do 2.5 miles today, according to his training schedule. Fuck that, he could do four. 10 minutes at a brisk jog was 50 calories, after all.

)o(

Yuri hadn't intended to warp himself into a fucking tv movie stereotype. Pretty teen athlete goes on crash diet or shoves their fingers down their throat to lose a few pounds, yadda yadda yadda. It was humiliating, actually, for someone who liked so badly to be set apart from the rest. He remembered being shown the same documentaries in health class as the other 'girls' back in Moscow, right before changing rinks and schools and towns and genders. Some drivel on the same budget as their fucking menstruation and 'journey into womanhood' videos that they had to get parental permission to watch. Grandpa had been only too eager to sign 'Yulia' up, seeing as his mom had been a no-show for 2 months now and, unbeknownst to a 9 year old Yulia/Yuri, probably wasn't coming back. Nikolai had no idea how to handle a tween girl on his own and was just too eager for help from the Russian school system. So he'd sat with all the others in a "very special" version of health and gym for 2 weeks, eeewing over the cross section bodies with the other 9 and 10 year olds, folding arms self consciously over their chests that may or may not have had anything to hide yet. He'd watched with horrified interest at that documentary in particular, those terribly underweight girls and women with their gaunt faces and their cold, shivering bodies. Gross, he'd thought, staring down happily at his own soft, strong legs beneath his uniform skirt. And stupid.

He'd quickly put it from his mind, though. He was 9 years old, he had his skateing to keep him busy, his favorite shows to catch in the evening in front of grandpa's spotty TV while dinner was made. Besides, within a year of that class he'd come to the realization that he was not, in fact, a girl and this was, obviously a girls problem. It was over 5 years before such a thing even crossed his mind again.

)o(

Officially, his run finished when he swung by the rink to grab his heavy, burdensome sports bag, bid his coaches and whoever was hanging around a good night and head on his way home, but he wouldn't be using his bus pass to get home tonight. It was just over a mile to his apartment, and a brisk walk would take maybe half an hour. Yuri was glad to be allowed back home and not be living with Lilia and Yakov anymore; her home was lavish, comfortable and honestly, he enjoyed feeling like a pampered little prince while soaking in a garden tub, but he missed his grandpa and their small, comfortable, lived in apartment.

"There's my Yuratchka," he greeted from the stove as Yuri slunk in the door that didn't like to open all the way. Yuri toed his muddy shoes off on the yellowed linoleum, unwound his scarf and began to shed his thermal layers; outdoor training in Russia was a fucking nightmare and he already missed the comparative warmth of Hasetsu's winter.

"Hey, grandpa, what smells so good?"

"Chicken and mashed potatoes," he grunted, opening their oven to check on the pan. "And there's corn and peas on the stove too. Pot pie in a bowl."

Fuck. Chicken wasn't so bad; chicken was lean, and it was protein, which he needed to be even semi functional, but grandpa's mashed potatoes were a nightmare. Grandpa knew what it was like to not have simple luxuries like butter and milk and cream, and thus had a penchant for using liberal amounts of the stuff in his cooking, including but not limited to potatoes. There was no way of figuring out how many extra calories to count on one little scoop of the already starchy, carby dish. Well, plenty of peas, then, to cover up what he might not eat.

"Sounds good. I'm gonna rinse off first."

Locked safely in the bathroom, Yuri plopped on the edge of the tub and opened Google on his phone, checking numbers he already knew by heart. Calories in red potatoes, skins on. Calories in red potatoes, skins off. Calories in 1 cup whole milk, 1 tablespoon butter, 5, margarine, heavy cream, half and half. Always count the worst case scenario and under-eat that...Calories in red potatoes, skins off. God damn it! He hated the obsessive tail-chasing in his brain. Shouldn't he just have this down by now? He'd been fucking up for almost a year, why couldn't his fucking brain just retain this information and then BELIEVE it?

....one more time around, just one. He could get away with this for 550 if he drank tea and went light on the potatoes. He could groan about Lilia bitching about carbs, that was legit, and grandpa tended to take his coaches words as law. Nikolai did anything he reasonably could to further his grandsons career...

He swallowed that marble of guilt as he started the water, and it didn't go down any easier than he knew his dinner soon would.


	3. Chapter 3

Yuri belly flopped onto his bed, the barely-made covers rumpling beneath him as he snuggled down to get comfortable for the evening. Sasha mewled her displeasure as his wriggling woke her from her nap on the corner of the bed, nearest the heating vent. A tickle under her chin carried his apology, and she flicked her tufted ears and let him be, her Majesty obviously sated for now.

Yuri's bedroom was as messy as anyone would expect an almost-16 year olds to be, but honestly there was little avoiding that. During the season he was only ever home for a few hours most days, and would then sometimes be gone for a near week at a time for international competitions. Even in the summer there was no guarantee that he'd have much of a break to lounge around. There were shows and exhibitions to attend, with the promise of many this year, having swept the Grand Prix Finals and being a lead contender for the European Championship. Yakov and Lilia were already negotiating a festival in Toronto (fucking JJ would be there, shining star of North America's answer to Siberia) and another in Brazil, which could be fun, he'd never been there.

School just added to his workload, online courses supplemented by twice-weekly seminars at a homeschooling group, and he was just as likely to set up his laptop to hear a lecture on geometry or European History at the rink as he was at home. Atop this, his room was small, with only a few square feet to actually walk about on and only so many Rubber-Maid totes and drawers could be crammed into his space, so fucking sue him if he didn't have all that much time to do more than throw his workout clothes in the laundry between skating, ballet, jetsetting and yelling at down servers while trying to take a French lesson. Fuck French anyway, JJ spoke French and was, therefor, a tainted and inferior language.

Rummaging in a pile of clean t shirts with no home, he extracted his laptop, plugged in the charger and popped the lid open, his phone open to Instagram while he waited for it to start. He may be sleeping under a water stain that Grandpa swore looked eerily like Kirril, but his laptop was new and started quick. Yura dug his feet under the folds of his comforter, warming his toes. First he popped onto a radio site to start up background music (and he may or may not have selected a prompt that included a Khazak artist or two, just...just to hear it) and then played Good and Responsible Yura by checking his school email and account. Cool, an 85 on his French test, an 82 on Geometry. Mostly positive marks, though he lagged behind as ever in Life Science. He just had no room in his mind for Latin atop of every other language he knew, be it an actual chattering or words or just the jargon of whatever dance style he was currently utilizing in his performance. Still, he was passing, and that's all Grandpa wanted. Study hard, make good marks.

"You'll never want for money or a career, Yura, but it's always good to have a fallback," he lectured any time Yuri let his grades slip. Don't be an idiot, that's all grandpa asked. Well, that and "stop kicking things your blades are expensive" and "I don't care if you spend your free time running around with friends or boys but please never come home and tell me you're pregnant." Grandpa appreciated the simple things in life, it seemed. 

Facebook was little more than a formality for Yuri, so he skipped it entirely. He browsed his Youtube subscriptions, added 2 new videos to 'watch later' and spent an half hour scrolling Tumblr and Reddit. The internet was just damn convenient, perfect to just dissapear into for a couple hours. Or more, if someone was a DICK enough to link him up to TV Tropes at 10 pm. Sure, IP addresses could be tracked and photos could be dug through for encryption info, but generally speaking, the anonymity was secure and welcome. Not a single damn person would look at another cat/fashion/random stupid humor blog and think "wow this seems like that Russian skating kid." Escape was just one new email and username away, and so long as he didn't mix up his public accounts with his private, he was fine.

BaDOOP

The blue S at the bottom of his screen began to flash a golden-orange halo, and a message popped up in the corner.

Otabek: Hey, you around?

With another wiggle, Yuri opened a new Skype window, dragging it over to the side, propped himself up on his elbows and began to type.

Yuri: What's left of me at least. Lilia demands a blood sacrifice every practice

Otabek: Sounds like my skating coach. Never sure all my muscles are still attached to my bones when I'm done.

A hard breath through his nose and a smirk passed as Yuri's laughter.

Yuri: Come train here for the summer, you'll appreciate him a lot more

Yuri kicked one foot up over his back, half-dragging a star-print throw blanket over himself. God he wished the heater would kick on, but their thermostat was a temperamental and spotty thing at best and didn't want to eek out so much as a breath of hot wind till fucking midnight. Clicking out of the Skype window he wondered if it was any warmer in Kazakhstan right now, or if Otabek was padding around his apartment in layers of hoodies and Under Armor too. With a faint smile, Yuri shook his head, then tucked a stray lock of blonde hair away from his eyes. It seemed to always be in the way these days, the downside of growing it out. 

Fingertips tapped across the keys, still egg-shell smooth, too new to be worn down to that glossy black finish. Yuri was a quick typist and took only a moment to enter the whole URL manually; like fuck he didn't clear this from his history at night, no different than porn. It's not like anyone snooped around his laptop, as Grandpa was still learning his DVD player, but he'd rather play it safe. With the same quick tiptiptipping he logged in, 'JellyToebeans' as his current handle. No skating references, and his profile said he was from the UK. Nobody would ever ask otherwise.

Otabek; Is that an invitation?

Another pleased smile; he let the forum fall into the background as he brought the window up again.

Yuri: Hey if you wanna sleep on my couch for two weeks and hear old Russian ladies yell at you that's your deal

Otabek: Been a long time since I've visited St Petersburg. Miss the food.

Yuri: You shoudl try my grandpa's cooking, fucking amazing. Loves feeding company.

Otabek: I'll come back 20 pounds heavier, then my coach really WILL kill me.

"Fucking right?" Yuri muttered to himself. At the sound of her humans voice, Sasha blinked, stretched, and pawed around on the edge of the bed, coming up to Yuri and headbutting her face against his. Which, he enjoyed, even if he did often get a tickleing whisker up the nose.

"What do you think Sashka? Should we invite Otabek for a stay this summer?"

Wise eyes held no answers for him, only blinked slowly.

"Yeah it could be weird huh," he replied for himself, sinking his fingertips into her dense fur. Really, he didn't know Otabek very well, they'd only hung out those couple nights, IRL at least, but they'd been touching base pretty much every day, either popping in on Skype, or texting, liking one another's pictures on Instagram. Back and forth their friendship grew in pixelated soil, reblogs and tags having to suffice where coffee runs and motorcycle rides couldn't exist. Yuri's shoulders hunched up, his back arching pleasantly at the memory, not unlike his cat when she was tempted with something delightful in front of her. He'd never been on one before. He wasn't old enough to operate anything more mobile than a bicycle, and it's not like he had any friends at all, let alone one with a motorcycle. He had a cousin who rode but he only saw him for Christmas and shit and he was like, 12 years older than Yuri. It had been just an escape route that afternoon to get away from his more...overenthusiastic fans, and he'd been in such a state of wtf that all he'd been able to do was hang on to the seat and hope he wasn't about to get raped in an alley somewhere. Stranger Danger after school specials flashed through his head as they'd driven further outside the city, but, obviously, Otabek wasn't some closeted strangler. Their return trip had been just as awe-struck, Yuri running Otabek's words over in his hand over and over till their rough, shockingly new edges became smooth and comfortable in his mind.

He still hadn't taken the time to really enjoy the ride, though, and he regretted that.

Yuri: maybe I'll come visit you instead, we can ride around Almaty

He awaited a reply, minimizing his screen and going back to his browsing. The typical drama; Help, I binged, I feel so gross! What are your numbers today? My Dutch teacher is asking questions. I'm going inpatient guys, what will they let me bring?

Scrolling through with his middle finger on the tracking pad, Yuri eyed the first few pages, clicking in to a few topics to vent off similar steam or to just see what kind of shitstorm was brewing beneath the first awkward posts of an idiot newbie. Day in and out it was mostly the same drivel, but all the same it was something to do and people to talk to, most shushed up with the same dirty secret as him, some for a damn lot longer than his year or so. Honestly it was kind of fucked up, how easy it was to dump ones deepest sins and shames on the internet for anyone to see, a username and icon acting as the perfect mask to spill all the garbage they couldn't let anyone in their daily lives see. They whispered weight to one another, the real numbers, not the fake ones they got in an office with rolls of quarters in their bras. One girl with thick, dense coils of curly hair, had actually woven washers into the roots to add to her scale, which Yuri had to admit was kinda clever. Heights and goals decorated the page in glittery pink font or simple black lines. Yuri didn't really post much like that, his profile was just his basics and some lies, his signature a photo of a cat he's snatched off Pinterest; his own cats face was as well known in certain spheres as his own, so like hell he'd post her. 

Otabek: Would your grandpa slash demon coaches allow that? You'll only be 16

"Wonder what Beka would say if he saw me on here, hm Sasha?" Again, his feline companion remained quiet, keeping her opinions to herself as she groomed a back paw.

Yuri: Either way it'd b fun to see you this summer. Barcelona was fun

He missed Otabek and he didn't fucking know how to process that. Longing was a feeling reserved for his grandpa when he was training for weeks at a time away from him. It was for the mother he hadn't seen since he was nine and the father in Sweden who sent letters once in a blue moon, usually with a magazine clipping. Yuri hated those, and wondered how many his dad kept for himself, pinned up on some office wall or something just so he could show off and say, look, that's my daughter, I made this, she'll be an Olympian soon, just watch.

...Perhaps 'miss' wasn't the best way to describe the ache in his chest regarding his parents, then. Perhaps he just missed what they were suppose to be. Hell, he barely remembered Mom at this point. Last time they saw each other she was just dropping "Yulia" off at grandpas for the weekend, and he was ushered off into his guest bedroom while Grandpa and Mom started screaming in English, which he didn't know well enough to understand yet. Of course, almost 7 years later, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Just hours later Grandpa had loaded him up in the car and taken him out for supper; Yuri could still taste it, pizza with everything a nine year old would like, extra cheese stretching from his hand to his mouth, and an almost Hellishly hot brownie for desert, capped off with dulce de leche ice cream and marshmallow fluff. A stop at the mall on the way back had loaded the car down with outlet-priced blouses, skirts, pajamas and shampoo that smelled like strawberries-

His stomach growled. Which was stupid, because he just fucking HAD dinner. Mostly peas and carrots, some chicken, and exactly 6 bites of mashed potatos. Apparently the recollection of buttery crust and thick, spicy tomato sauce wasn't doing his day's plan much good. Yuri just uncapped his lemon water and took a swig. He still couldn't be sure of those potatoes, so that was all he'd have tonight. 

Otabek: It was...for real tho want to hang out sometime this summer?

The tired, half-grin he'd been wearing all evening broke out into a true, wide smile, and his stomach became easy to ignore as it filled with a new, fuzzy lightness.


End file.
